Freedom

I look down at the table and see the chaos—making jack-o’-lantern is a messy job. Even though my lovely girlfriend had covered the table with newspapers, it is not going to be an easy cleanup job. For a second, I wonder whether I need to clean at all. I can leave the headache to the police units and forensic team, who will no doubt descend on our house in just a few days, but the neat freak inside me doesn’t allow it. After this little incident, people will call me different names, but the only thing I don’t want them to call me is messy.

First, I pick up Jane from the floor and take her into the bedroom. I place her on the bed—the bed where I spent hundreds of hours trying to decipher her true motives for being in a relationship with someone like me—and cover her with a duvet. Just because her stab wounds were inflicted by me, it doesn’t mean I want to look at them again and again. I am not some sicko who gets high on his victim’s misfortune. At least not anymore.

After making sure Jane was comfortable, I sprint through the task at hand. I place the half-carved pumpkins and various carving tools in the sink. I throw away the bloody pumpkin guts, soiled newspaper, and bits and pieces of the pumpkins and Jane’s body into a garbage bag. Next, I get a wet rag to wipe the blood off the walls, furniture, and carpet. I can still hear my mother whispering “Wash your bloody clothes in cold water, Ian. Always. Hot water will cook the blood stain forever” in my ear. She might not have meant the advice for human blood, but I follow it anyway. Next, I take a shower and wash my clothes. I don’t bother with the bleach. What’s the point? I only want to make the crime scene presentable—not remove every goddamn piece of evidence.

As I am washing the knives coated with a mixture of pumpkin guts and Jane’s guts, I wonder what to do with the half-carved pumpkins. I don’t mind throwing out Jane’s. Her design is simple and easy; just like her life. However, I have put so much effort into mine. The dragon eye, once finished, will look so hauntingly beautiful, especially with the accidental blood splotches. In the end, I decided to finish the carving. I will disappear before anyone finds Jane, so I might as well show off my craftmanship to the public.

My hands are steady as I carve. Instead of fear or guilt, my mind is actually calm in a long time. For the past ten years, all I have done is live in the fear of someone finding out the truth and destroying my life. But I don’t care anymore. As long as there is money in my bank account, I will be fine. I set my finished jack-o’-lantern on the front porch and place a large tub of candy beside it. Next, I say a lengthy goodbye to Jane and jet off to my freedom.

***

Jane’s body is discovered after three days. Long after I have settled in my new home enjoying the best possible luxury money could buy. Media outlets attributed her death to burglary, gang violence, or even a jealous ex, but never to me. I am their blue-eyed boy, after all. Some pundits even speculated the killer who killed my family ten years ago has resurfaced to finish off his job. Oh, the dramatic irony. I can’t wait to see their faces after the forensic results are out.

After a long wait, police have finally concluded that Jane was killed by none other than Ian Bell—the tragic boy who lost all his family members in a brutal homicide. Phew, at last. I had begun to wonder whether they would find out the truth even with all the evidence I left behind. I know for a fact I could have hidden my involvement if I wanted. I fooled them once, and I could do it again. But what’s the fun in that? 

Ten years ago, when the familicide was declared homicide, it led to a boring life, where people treated me as a glass vase who should be protected at any cost. The sympathy, the kindness, the attention, the melancholy…God it sucked. I murdered my whole family so I could live my life on my terms, but I hadn’t planned for living my life in a fishbowl. 

I was fourteen years old when I finally realized my parents were a mere hindrance in living my life to its fullest. They cared far more about my scores, my behavior, and my learning the value of money than my freedom. Who cares if I skip a day of school or stole few bucks here and there? What’s the point of being rich if one can’t enjoy it?

All my childhood I kept hearing, “Ian, don’t do that,” “Ian, you are grounded,” “Ian, it’s immoral,” “Ian, learn from your sister…” like a broken record player. One day, I sold a diamond ring my grandmother left for me in her will, and my mom acted like it’s the end of the world. She didn’t understand my argument that I was the ring’s rightful owner, and I could sell it or throw it in a river if it pleased me. My father threatened to cut me off from the family fortune if I didn’t clean up my act. So, I decided to take matters into my hands. 

Few weeks after the ring incident, while my father loafed around his study, I snuck into my parents’ bedroom and stabbed my mother’s heart. Then I went to my little sister’s bedroom. But that wily devil tried to escape while screaming at the top of her lungs. I caught her by her ankles and bashed her head against the wall. I didn’t even have the time to cherish the fear in the eyes of my parents’ golden child because I had to take care of my dad who was rushing from his study. I knew I couldn’t overpower him if we are on a same landing, so, I pushed him down the stairs and jumped over him and attacked him with the knife. But my dad threw me away. I collided with a pillar and banged my head hard. My anger flared when I realized I was bleeding, but a new idea flashed into my head. At first, I had a different alibi story planned, but the new idea was even more believable. I smiled looking at my dad’s vain efforts to get up. He might have had a large physique, but I had a large brain. My stabs were small but efficient.

I slept in the same position without moving an inch until our housekeeper showed up the next morning. At first, the police thought everyone was dead, but after inspecting further, they rushed me to hospital. Soon after the recovery, they asked for my statement. All I said was, “I rushed out of my room when I heard screams. When I went to intervene, a masked man hurled me away, and I lost consciousness. The next thing I remember is waking up in the hospital.” 

After several months of useless investigation, police concluded that the Bell family murder was a case of burglary gone wrong. One or two cynics tried to doubt my story, but they were hushed up. No one doubted my innocence. Everyone’s verdict was the same: “Look at the grieving boy, his small build, and his innocent face. How could he even over power his dad? Moreover, the killer was right-handed while I was clearly left-handed.”

After getting out of the hospital and a few mandatory psych evaluations, I had stupidly assumed I would be free. I had done tons of research about forensic evidence, human anatomy, and even body language; but I had forgotten one crucial thing: my age. Since I was still a minor and had no extended family, I was declared a ward of the court. I was forced to live with the court-appointed guardian and all my property was handed over to a financial guardian. I had to wait four more years to enjoy the fruits of my labor. The travesty! But that’s not all. I had to undergo countless interviews, therapies, and psychological evaluations to prove that I was not damaged goods. One wrong step, I would either be thrown into prison or worse, a psychiatric ward. My hard-earned money would be someone else’s. So, for four years I kept my head down and played the part of an innocent boy who lost everything.

Even after I became an adult, I couldn’t escape the fish bowl; I had become the poster child for tragedy. The public sympathy which had helped me a great deal turned into a two-edged blade. One suspicion from a cop with an itch, the cold case could be reopened. I moved to the suburbs, got a boring minimum-wage job, had a steady relationship, and lived a boring life for five years. No juicy drama meant no media attention, and I could slip out of people’s memory. 

Nine years of living like a monk started getting on my nerves. I had risked everything and for what? I couldn’t even enjoy anything without feeling fear. I couldn’t trust anyone because I feared everyone I met would turn out to be an undercover cop or a bored reporter trying to get a huge break. I followed Jane’s every move for a whole year before I even began trusting her a little bit. I didn’t tell her the whole truth because I am not a fool. But even then, I searched her eyes every day for one flick of sympathy or doubt. 

I could no longer live my life in the shadows of doubt. So, I constructed a careful plan of disappearing from my life. Gradually I sold all my assets, stashed the money overseas, and located a place where even if my criminal record got out, it would be of no consequence as long as I was ready to grease palms. The only link I had to snip was Jane. And the day before Halloween offered me a perfect chance.

We were both trying to decide whose method of carving was the best. I argued that cutting the pumpkin from the bottom was the best approach. It’s easier to clean, the bottom won’t be wobbly, and I can even use wired lights instead of a candle. But Jane argued that cutting the lid from the top was best because it’s traditional and that’s what she did with her family every year. We were having fun while arguing for arguing’s sake when Jane suddenly quipped, “I know more about these things; I have celebrated festivals with my family many more times than you.” In the next instant, the sharp knife in my hand reflexively found her neck. I kept on stabbing her to take out years’ worth of pent-up frustrations.

Killing Jane was never in my plans. But she forced my hand by mocking me. I had given her a perfect life. People treated her as some sort of angel from heaven who saved me when in reality, I was the one who put up with her. Her tardiness, her positivity, her joy…everything irritated me, but I put up with it. She got to enjoy her dream life while I seethed from within. But she was never satisfied. Recently she was even talking about getting married and starting a family. A fucking family. I changed my position on the bed and tried to sleep. I did not risk my whole life just to be a slave for some attention-seeking crying goblins.

Police are searching for me, but I am not worried. I have spent a huge chunk of my money to remain outside the reach of the law. There are no worries, yet I can’t sleep. Whenever I close my eyes, I keep remembering Jane’s eyes. There was understanding in her eyes like she understood why I stabbed her. The mad woman murmured sorry for hurting me, and the media is calling me a lunatic!  

I never noticed my mom’s eyes, there was fear in my sister’s eyes, and my dad’s eyes were filled with hatred for me, and I never lost a night’s sleep over it. But Jane’s eyes were filled with acceptance—like she somehow deserved her fate.

No, no, I can’t get into this rabbit hole. I will go mad if I don’t snap out of this. Yet, her eyes…